a lie that i've been told
by moeten
Summary: he's dreamed of this moment.


_so it turns out that my real himym otp is actually [ted+b/r], lmao._

* * *

There's a nervous energy in the room, in the seconds before the doors open. Ted is having trouble focusing on it, on anything — Barney and Marshall in the corner of his eye, the minister making last-second adjustments, the confused murmurs of the crowd. All he can see are the doors, the pews out of focus, the guests nameless, faceless, unfamiliar. His suit is heavy and feels suddenly stiff, starched, his collar too tight. He feels himself sweating, can't hear the whispered exchange right beside him, Barney and Marshall laughing. It's all a blur.

And then the doors open.

A piano piece begins to play; not a traditional wedding song, but something softer, even simpler, pretty and delicate. It isn't what Ted would have chosen, but Robin isn't a normal bride.

 _Robin._

And then she appears.

She looks beautiful, she always looks beautiful, but Ted's heart aches and flips and tightens when he sees her like this, in a wedding dress, _her_ wedding dress, her wedding, white and graceful, her hair pulled back, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed. Beautiful, she's beautiful: smiling, a little bit nervously, maybe; a little embarrassed — _Robin_ , getting _married_ , yes, she knows too — but pushing through it, walking with her head high, walking up the aisle, walking to the altar, walking towards Ted.

It's everything he's always imagined.

Because he has imagined it. He's imagined it a lot, more than he'd like to admit, starting from the first day, the first moment he met her — that cool, confident look, the amused smile, _in on the joke_ expression, how she'd flicked her glance over him appraisingly and liked what she'd seen. And he'd liked what he'd seen, too, and the world had seemed like it does now — a little bit — the fuzziness had been there, the way Barney and everyone else in the bar had seemed sort of foggy and dim, and he'd thought _I'm gonna marry that girl._

He'd thought it when they dated, of course, pictured her with her long hair swept up, a long dress — in what Ted can admit now is more his taste than hers, seeing her walk up the aisle now, he'd imagined something poofy and like in the movies, imagined her eyes bright from happy tears and even that slightly-bashful, self aware smile: _yes, I know, I_ know _I said I wouldn't_ , and knowing that she'd changed her mind… that he'd changed her mind, that she'd loved him enough…

When they'd dated, he'd known that she wasn't ready yet. He'd imagined and hoped — him at the end of the aisle, Marshall and Barney beside him, Robin walking to meet him, her eyes bright…

They'd broken up. They'd broken up because she thought he was proposing. She hadn't gotten how much it hurt, how — how _mean_ it had been of her, to laugh and be so horrified —

But here she is now, walking up the aisle.

The little piano melody continues, repeats itself — it hasn't been long, but it's a short tune — and she seems to gain more confidence the closer she gets, her bashfulness turning into excitement, self-awareness and restraint slipping away.

They'd made a pact once, too, Ted remembers. He can't remember anymore, if he'd thought it was a joke at first or always taken it seriously; it blurs in his memory, him on one knee before Lily's gourmet dinner and Robin in her pajamas, the jokes they'd made over the years about it, how there had been times he'd forgotten, almost, and then Victoria or something would remind him. Robin, age 40, walking towards him — not in the poofy wedding dress of his 20s wedding fantasy, but in a sleek white dress, heels, red lipstick, that irony again, _yes, I'm wearing white, this is silly but I_ mean _it_. He was never sure if it would be in a church or a courthouse — he likes the church, the formality, Marshall and Barney and Lily standing for them — but he also likes the impulsive romanticism of a courthouse, running hand-in-hand up and then down the steps, acting on a whim but with the utmost sincerity. That had been what awaited him for years, sustained him for years, though Zoey and Victoria and everyone else — Marshall and Barney and Lily throwing rice at them as he held Robin's hand and she shrieked with laughter.

Ted had never imagined it happening like this.

Robin is close now — Robin is all he sees. The brightness of her eyes, a strand of flyaway hair, her sleeve slipping down her shoulder. His heart aches at it all, at her sleeve — the little dab of imperfection, the little detail that she forgot or rushed through or ignored; _it's just a wedding, I'm not gonna take it_ that _seriously_. He's always loved that about Robin, that little edge, that small defiance or contrariness or accidental stubbornness she brings to everything she does. He's always loved…

She's wearing the locket he found for her, and he can't fight the smile that bursts across his face. Robin catches it and smiles back, closed mouthed, her expression warm and loving and grateful — _I know_ , it says. _I was being ridiculous, wasn't I?_ , it says.

He's dreamed of this moment, him at the end of the aisle with Robin in white. He's dreamed of it for years and years. He can't look away, can't think of anything else — but Robin's smile is warm and apologetic, and Ted smiles back. _A little_ , his says.

 _Thank you_ , Robin smiles, takes the final step up the dais.

And Robin looks at Barney.

Barney has been fidgeting for minutes, a nervous wreck, and now he's completely still. Ted doesn't have to see his expression, because he can see Robin's: no hesitation, no detached irony or coolness or fear; she's smiling at Barney, grinning, and Ted doesn't recognize the expression. Not from her. Not like _that_ , with no pretense or coolness, beaming, a little nervous, _happy_ , as she says, "Hi!"

The ceremony isn't very long. The minister reads a bit from Corninthians: achievements and charity meaning nothing without love, accomplishments being nothing without love. Lily and Marshall shoot one another concerned looks when it's time for vows and Ted hears James suck in a wary breath, but Barney and Robin use the standard ones; _honor_ and _sickness_ and _faithfulness_. They don't crack jokes. Barney doesn't improvise, doesn't fidget at all.

Ted can't look away from Robin.

She doesn't look at him even once after their exchange before the dais; she looks at Barney, at their minister, back at her fiancé, smiling in degrees, sometimes more and sometimes less but the whole way through. Barney's voice gets quiet when he speaks his vows, his head turning towards the minister for confirmation of the line — her smile softens then, eyes warm, until he looks back at her. Ted's sure when it's her turn to speak her eyebrow will quirk — she'll show some sign of restraint, of being in on the joke… the joke, whatever the joke is here… but it doesn't. She gets a little flustered at the rings — almost drops Barney's — and when he chuckles, she doesn't get embarrassed or defensive, but laughs too, soft, under her breath. She tears up a little during those standard printout vows, and Barney laughs under his breath and says something like _told you_ , almost inaudibly, and it makes her laugh again too.

Ted's never seen her so happy before.

Happy, sure, many times; because of him, or their friends, or a funny animal on TV. Laughing, smiling, teasing, joking; Ted's seen them all, catalogued them all, loved them all. Robin giggling at a joke he made; Robin laughing at the bar; Robin smiling in bed in the morning…

Robin, unreserved, unguarded, on her wedding day.

And then the ceremony is over: Barney hesitates for a beat or two before an almost shy _I do_ , Robin looking up at the ceiling, composing herself again before the same.

When they kiss, Ted is relieved that he wants to smile, relieved that he joins in the applause, relieved that it doesn't feel like faking it, relieved that when Barney hugs him he hugs back — he keeps waiting, waiting to feel something else, something _more_ , but he feels himself grinning, the mood of the room catching, Marshall and Lily both a bit weepy and joking how they never thought this day would come, James scanning the crowd and going to his husband and children in the back.

The room clears quickly, but Ted lingers at the end of the aisle.

He's dreamed of this day for years.

Robin in a white dress, Robin looking at him like that, smiling at him like that — him making a joke, and her laughing, him reciting vows — not those standard ones, the easy ones, the ones people like Barney and Robin use in front of a room full of expectant listeners, but something Ted would have written himself, something Ted still has sentences and bits of in his brain; how he'd talk about the moment he first saw Robin, her beauty and cool smile and how she'd apprised him at a glance and liked what she'd seen. How he'd decided at that moment what mattered to him was her and her approval and her appraisal, how he had known her love would not be an easy thing to find or hold or understand…

He'd turned to Barney, that day so many years ago.

He's adapted the moment for his best man speech.

Ted sighs, because he feels heavy, because he feels a little sad and a little lonely, the last person in the church on his last day in New York. It is sad and he is sad, but he keeps waiting for it to get worse, get stronger, get _harder_ — for all his Ohioan instincts to fail him and the emotion to get to be too much — heartbreak and loss and, and, rending of the clothes, sitting heavily in a pew to weep, alone…

But it doesn't happen. He feels sad, but he feels okay. He's always dreamed of Robin in a wedding dress, Robin walking towards him up the aisle — but it had been a different dress, a different song, a different service, a different… Robin. He can't name how, exactly — he hadn't known it until just minutes ago, and he doesn't feel staggering heartbreak or jealousy or loss. He feels a little sad, but he feels okay, and he's happy for Robin and happy for Barney and figuring out how to be happy from the bottom of his heart for them both, and so Ted walks down the aisle, out of the church, towards the reception tent, thinking not about heartbreak and stolen dreams, but his best man speech and beginnings and ends and starts.

It's raining, a cool spring downpour, but the tent is lit up bright, and amidst the chatter and laughter of the reception, he can hear the opening notes of wedding band.


End file.
